


The White Wolf

by JustGettingBy



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Transformation, Bisexuality, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Witch Curses, Wolf!Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22545766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: Life at his new court is going well for Jaskier.Now, if only that freaky white wolf would stop following him around (even if it is a secret softy).ORThe one where Geralt pisses off a witch, gets turned into a wolf, and has until the spring equinox to undo the spell. All Jaskier has to do is find Geralt's true love.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 79
Kudos: 2595
Collections: Just.... So cute...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set between episodes 5 and 6. As always, this is based of the TV show, not books or games.

The first time Jaskier sees the wolf, he’s walking back from the market with a basket of apples in one hand, a new roll of parchment in the other, and a length of fine red fabric for new clothes tucked under his arm. 

It’s not a long walk from the market to the castle where he’s currently staying, but it’s late fall and the weather changes rapidly with the nightfall—which seems to be unfairly earlier and earlier every day. Jaskier’s cloak keeps most of the icy mountain wind off his back, though. He’ll be back before the warmth of the hearth in his chambers soon enough. 

He’s staring at the brush when he spots it. A flash of white fur. Yellow eyes glaring through a bare bush. 

Jaskier stops in his tracks, his heart leaping into a quick beat. The road is quiet right now—no one to help him or scare off the wild animal. It’s strange, he thinks briefly, that a wild animal would come so close to the town. The noise is usually enough to keep them back. Jaskier’s eyes sweep over the rest of the woods. He’s not stupid. He knows wolves travel in packs. He can’t see anything else, though. _Doesn’t mean they aren’t there,_ a voice at the back of his head nags. He fights off a shiver and turns back. 

The wolf is gone. He can’t see so much as a hint of fur. 

Jaskier walks quickly back to the castle. He can’t shake the feeling he’s being watched. 

When he reaches the gate, the guard, Elias, greets him with a worried expression. “You alright?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jaskier smiles weekly. His skin must be clammy and drained of colour. “I’m fine,” he says. 

Elias doesn’t look convinced.

“It’s just been a long week.” 

* * *

Two weeks later, Jaskier sees the wolf for the second time. He’s enjoying an unusually warm day in the late fall—winter will be here soon, he’s sure. A few hours North, they’ve already had the first snow. 

Jaskier sits on a rock by the creek, his jacket by his side. When he walked down earlier, the day was still cool, but it heated quickly with the full sun. 

In the distance, a bird chirps. Jaskier drums his fingers against his jaw. There’s something to say about this day, he knows. Some sort of beautiful sonnet to write to this last fleeting moment of warmth. But he just can’t find the _damn words._ He chucks a stone into the creek. It doesn’t skip. He can’t even get that right. 

Jaskier tenses the muscles in his jaw, reaches down, scoops up another stone, and tosses it again. This time it skims across the surface twice before it sinks down into the water. Better than nothing, Jaskier thinks. 

As he turns around, he starts. 

The wolf—the same one he saw on his way home from the market—stands not ten feet from him. It’s a big thing, with lean and powerful muscles and sharp canines. It growls and Jaskier feels the low noise rumble in his chest. 

Jaskier swallows. This is it, he thinks. After all the adventures, he’s going to be mauled by a wolf. Hopefully, someone will edit that part out of history and replace it with a dragon or griffin. It’ll make for a much better story that way. 

The wolf steps forward and Jaskier steps backward, but there’s nowhere he can go. Behind him is a large rock and next to him is the creek. He closes his eyes and puts his hands out in front of him. As the wolf walks forward, Jaskier can hear the crunch of fallen leaves and the occasional twig snapping. 

He scrunches his face up and waits for his end. All he can hope is for a quick death. 

But it never comes.

He pries one eye open. The wolf is only an arms-length away. Its previous expression of anger has faded into an open curiosity. It cocks its head at Jaskier. 

He’s not getting mauled, but this still isn’t good, Jaskier thinks. He remembers how his father once warned him about rabid animals: the only thing worse than a wild animal acting like a wild animal is one that _doesn’t_ act like a wild animal. The man could never speak straightforward, but Jaskier understood well enough. Rabid animals lose their instincts. They know no fear. They’ll hurt themselves and not drink and die. 

“But you aren’t rabid, are you?” Jaskier says to the wolf. It doesn’t _seem_ rabid. Its mouth isn’t foaming, its fur isn’t matted. 

The wolf lets out a displeased growl as if it’s insulted Jaskier even suggest such a thing. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Jaskier mumbles and raises his hands in mock defence. “A bard’s got to be careful, you know.”

Again, the wolf inches closer. 

“Watch the hands,” Jaskier says. Is he really talking to animals know? He’s as bad as Geralt. At least Geralt _knows_ Roach. He’d never speak to some random wolf in the woods. “I need my fingers to play my lute.” Jaskier lowers his hands and stares at the animal. 

The wolf bumps his nose against Jaskier’s hand. It’s a soft action. Trusting. It doesn’t slow the wild race of Jaskier’s heart, though. 

After a moment with its nose pressed to Jaskier’s palm, the wolf stiffens. Its shoulders round and it drags its paws back in the leaves and dirt. 

With a low bark, it takes off, bounding through the trees. It doesn’t take much—only a few powerful strides—before it disappears in the trees. 

“Huh,” Jaskier says to himself. That was _weird._

He puts his foot on the rock and pushes himself back on top. For a while, he sits and drinks in the autumn sun. Listens to the creek rumble and the leaves fall and the birds twitter above. There’s so much life and beauty in the woods today. 

But Jaskier can’t pull his mind away from that damned wolf. 

_Damn it._

He’s not getting any writing done today. 

* * *

The snow comes not long after the warm afternoon. Almost overnight the weather pitched colder and brought in flurries and wind.

Jaskier kicks up his feet in front of his fire and strums his lute. Outside, the slow comes down. It’s heavy and wet and nearly certainly will fell some old trees with its weight. Snow like this only comes in late fall or late spring—just when the weather’s changing. A little more heat and it would be rain instead. 

Nights like these are perfect for writing and singing. No one wants to be outside, Jaskier the least of all. The world slows. 

Jaskier plucks a tune on his lute. He’s trying to get the words right, but it's difficult. The problem is he doesn’t actually _remember_ what happened with Djinn, seeing as he was unconscious for half the time. It’s a bit hard to have a riveting story with only a beginning and the end. He could reach out to Geralt, but he hasn’t heard from the Witcher in a while. Probably off tracking something slimy through the trees. He _could_ also ask Yennefer what happened but, well, he doesn’t think he’s that desperate yet. 

His thoughts are tumbling through his head when he hears a howl pierce through the night. On his strings, the movement of his fingers die. Was that the white wolf? 

Jaskier stands and moves to his window. When he opens it, a few heavy chunks of snow plummet to the ground below. The clouds are heavy—he can’t see the moon nor any stars. The world is quiet, the way it can only be when the snow blankets the world. He listens for the wolf, but Jaskier hears nothing. 

He shakes his head. He’s losing it, he thinks. There’s dozens, if not hundreds of wolves in the forest. Any one of them could’ve howled.

He’s imagining things. Right? 

* * *

The next day, the snow let up. Jaskier goes for a stroll. It might’ve been a mistake, he realizes, when the snow seeps through the gap in his leather boots and his feet are cold and wet. He turns back after only a quarter-hour. It’s still beautiful, nonetheless. The creek hasn’t frozen over yet. The water races between white banks. Some bushes still hold red berries. Water drips from the melt. 

He’s just outside the castle grounds when he sees the white wolf. Well, he sees its eyes glowing yellow—the wolf’s fur blends in seamlessly with the snow. 

“Hey, boy,” Jaskier says. He stops in his tracks and waits for the wolf to come out of its spot. 

After a moment, it does. It comes close to Jaskier and presses his nose into his palm, as it did on the first day. Instead of flinching back, it stays and tilts his head.

Jaskier takes the gesture in stride and moves his hand behind the wolf’s ear. He’s sure he’s lost his mind. No one with any ounce of sanity wouldn’t pet a wild wolf, but, well, common sense isn’t exactly Jaskier’s specialty. If he listened to the little voice in his head that said things like _don’t pet wild wolves_ or _don’t follow murderous Witcher’s_ his life would be very boring. So Jaskier digs his fingers into the wolf’s fur and scratches. 

The wolf’s ears perk up. It’s tail wags. 

Jaskier laughs to himself. “You like that, eh boy?” 

The wolf yips in response. In the snow, it knocks up the slush as it turns in a circle and falls to it’s back, belly up, all playful. 

“You _are_ a boy then,” Jaskier mumbles to himself and rubs the wolf’s belly. 

In the middle of playing, the wolf stops. He stands, his head cocked toward the castle, his ears twitching. He sprints off, back into the woods, and leaves Jaskier standing alone in the snow. “Nice to see you, too.” 

Jaskier turns to make his way back to the castle. After a few strides, Lady Helena and her maid come walking around the bend. 

“Hello, Jaskier,” Lady Helena says. Her grey hair is braided finely and gathered at the nape of her neck.

“My lady,” Jaskier says with a light bow, “it’s lovely to see you out here.”

“Enjoying the day?”

“Certainly,” he says and launches into pleasant small-talk. It’s a good thing the wolf left a moment ago, he thinks. If Lady Helena saw him playing with a wild wolf, she’d certainly think he was short a marble.

It was strange, he thinks, how quickly the wolf turned away. He must’ve heard them coming up the lane. After all, wolves did have excellent hearing. 

That night, Jaskier returned to the spot just outside the castle walls where he’d seen the wolf earlier. He opens his handkerchief, which is full of leftover bones and scraps from dinner. “Here, boy,” he says as he sets the food on a rock. He isn’t even sure if the wolf can hear him, but he’ll smell the food either way. Wolves have excellent senses, after all. Jaskier leans against a tree and waits.

Sure enough, the wolf comes out of the dark brush. He sniffs the food before chowing down, his powerful mandibles swinging open and sinking into the bone. He paws at the fat on the side of the bone.

“Knew you’d like that,” Jaskier says. He ruffles the fur on the top of the wolf’s head. “But you can’t come around here, boy. I’ll leave food, but you can only come at night. The last thing you need is some over-eager young knight finding you here, alright?” He stares into the wolf’s yellow eyes. They don’t look human, exactly, but they do seem kind and smart. 

The wolf nods at Jaskier, as if he understood the instructions. 

Jaskier shakes his head. He _really_ needs a good night’s rest. 

But—to the wolf’s credit—he doesn’t come back in the day. 

* * *

For the better part of the month, Jaskier’s been leaving food for the wolf. He doubts the wolf actually needs his help (an animal of his size and prowess hardly needs to be fed as if he’s a prize pup) but the thing is Jaskier likes doing it. It becomes a ritual, of sorts. He’ll save some of his dinner and scoop some scraps from the kitchen and wrap it all up in a handkerchief. Outside of the castle gates, he’ll leave it on the rock and wait for the wolf to come. He always does. 

The wolf’s a smart thing. Much smarter than any of the Lord’s hunting dogs, but Jaskier would never admit that out loud. 

One day, after giving the wolf a rib bone, Jaskier tries something. 

“Sit,” he says and points at the ground. 

The wolf growls and continues to gnaw at the rib bone. 

“Hey,” Jaskier says, “ _sit._ ”

The wolf lets out a low blow of air, drops the rib, and sits perfectly still. 

“Woah.” Jaskier scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t think that would work.”

The wolf is back on the bone a moment later. 

* * *

Winter in a castle can grow old very quickly. The life which seems plush and comfortable at first turns boring and dull as the days roll on. For weeks on end, bitter cold rages against the walls. Jaskier only leaves to put out food for the wolf, and returns as soon as he sets it down. It’s too cold to wait around. It’s too cold to do anything, really, except sit by his fire and sing for the court. 

His bones itch for adventure. 

On the first day the cold snap breaks—the first day in weeks when it doesn’t _hurt to breathe_ —Jaskier strolls through the castle’s corridors and knocks on a wooden frame.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks when it opens.

He takes Lady Helena’s daughter Cassandia on a walk through the woods. She looks like a fairy tale, all wrapped up in her furs with her hair swept up. The cold tinges her nose and cheeks pink. 

As they cross the frozen creek, Jaskier holds her hand. She giggles as he nearly slips on a patch of ice. 

“This is nice, you know,” she says as they sit under a tree. “I feel so stuck there all the time.”

“I can imagine.” Jaskier reaches for Cassandia and tucks a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “It’s quite stifling in the castle.” 

“It is.” She sighs. “But it’s not so bad when I can speak with someone who understands me.”

Her lips are on his before Jaskier can process what’s happening. He closes his eyes and runs one hand through her hair and the other moves forward to cup her breast. And, sure, he knows Lady Cassandia is betrothed. But that Duke is nearly twice her age, has never heard of personal grooming, and snores when he’s awake. The young woman deserves some adventure in her life, surely.

Their kiss doesn’t last long. 

Cassandia yelps and falls to the side. Jaskier opens his eyes to see her collapsed in the snow, hair wild and strewn, with a great white blob on top of her. 

“Hey!” He pulls the wolf back by the scruff of its neck. “No,” he says sternly. 

The wolf growls. It's stronger than him—much stronger—which means he’s only holding back for Jaskier’s sake.

“No,” Jaskier repeats in a low hiss and pushes the wolf behind him.

He reaches down and helps Cassandia to her feet. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Are you alright?”

Cassandia’s face flushes deep red. She brushes the snow off her fur coat and pushes her hair back in place. “It didn’t hurt me, just knocked me over.”

“Good, good.” Jaskier takes her hand, but the Lady seems hesitant. Nervous still. “He’s just a stray dog,” Jaskier elaborates. “Gotten a little attached and overprotective, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Even as he’s saying it, out of the corner of his eye Jaskier sees the wolf baring his teeth at Cassandia.  
“Sure,” she says. “Um, can we head back now?”

“Of course, my lady.” Jaskier reaches out and takes her arm to guide her. He shoots a glare back at the wolf, who seems satisfied with himself. 

A week later, Jaskier decides his time here has reached its natural end. He’s got no more songs to write about this place. The nobles have heard everything in his repertoire three times over and most just doze off when he performs. 

Lady Helena wishes him all the best on his road ahead. Cassandia gives him an awkward smile as he departs. 

While he walks to the next town over, Jaskier hums to himself. The time goes by faster when he’s got something to do besides think. 

He’s barely on the road when he hears a rustle in the trees. 

Jaskier stops humming and sighs. “I know you’re there,” he calls. “Just come and join me, for fuck’s sake.” 

Out of the trees, the wolf bounds down and nestles up to Jaskier’s leg. “If anyone asks, you’re my dog,” he says. 

The wolf yips in reply.

“Don’t get all cute. I’m still mad at you. You ruined my chances with _Cassandia._ ” 

* * *

Life on the road is easy for Jaskier. It’s a familiar sort of a hodgepodge of habit and surprise. He plays in taverns, he sleeps in inns, he swaps bawdy tales with people from across the continent. Playing in courts pays much more and more regularly, but this...this is what he loves. He forgot how much he missed it. 

One night not long after he started off on the road, he plays for a crowd in a crowded tavern on the outskirts of Glutea. It’s a rosing night—the whole place sings along to his songs. 

After he’s done—when his fingers hurt and his voice is raw—Jaskier meets with the owner outside the door, away from the noise. The man presses two marks into Jaskier’s hand. 

“Two?” Jaskier says. “We agreed on five marks.”

“The crowd wasn’t buying,” the man says gruffly. “Next time, get them drinking more and you’ll get your five marks.” He folds his arms over his broad chest.

Jaskier would like to fight, he really would. He’d like to dig in his heels and demand five and maybe even threaten the man a little bit. “Four,” he spits out instead. “They were buying plenty and your sales were never part of my agreement.”

“Two,” the man insists.

“Three. Your bar would’ve been empty if it wasn’t for me.”

“One.” A putrid grin splits across the fucker’s face. 

Jaskier’s ready to settle for two when he hears a growl from behind him. 

The man’s face pales—all the way from his chin to his cheeks to his forehead he blanches. His mouth drops open and he steps back, toward the door into the tavern. 

“You like my dog?” Jaskier reaches his hand back to scratch the white wolf’s head. 

“That’s not a dog.”

“He is. Name’s—“ Jaskier blanks, just for a second—“Ghost.” At that, the wolf lets out a strangled sort of bark that could pass for a laugh. Jaskier’s lip twitches. It was the best he could come up with on the spot. 

The tavern owner continues to stare at the wolf.

“So,” Jaskier says. “Five marks?”

Jaskier walks away with a full purse. 

“You know,” he says to the wolf as they walk back to the inn, “Ghost isn’t a bad name. It kind of suits you.” It’s really not a bad name at all, in Jaskier’s opinion, but there’s just something about the wolf that stops him from giving him a name at all. 

The wolf snorts in disagreement. 

“I could’ve said your name was Princess. How’d you like that?” 

The next thing Jaskier knows, the wolf pushes his hip into Jaskier’s legs. The bard trips ass over tea kettle and lands in a snowbank. 

“Next time someone asks,” he says, “I’m telling them your name is Geralt. You’re nearly as grumpy as him.”

The wolf whines in response to that one but wags his tail at the same time. Strange thing, that animal is.

* * *

Jaskier camps in the woods one night on a particularly long trek to a new village. He tries to avoid it if he can—he’s not one for camping if he can avoid it. Especially not in the winter. It’s too cold and exposed and altogether too much work. 

He strings up some canvas to make a tent before nightfall and builds a fire. He’s got food saved from the inn he stayed at the night before, so he doesn’t have to worry about hunting (thank the gods). He’s always been rubbish at it. 

As he eats the slightly stale bread and cured meat, the wolf comes up and sinks down next to the fire. 

“Have a good run?” Jaskier asks. 

The wolf’s nearly asleep, so Jaskier guesses the answer is yes. 

Jaskier fuels the fire before he lays down to sleep, but it’s still bitterly cold, even wrapped in a blanket. He tries his best to sleep and falls into a fitful rest. 

Sometime after midnight, he wakes. Snow falls in earnest and dampens the spare wood. “Damn it.” Jaskier tosses the ruined wood into the snow. 

The wolf’s head perks up. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to play fetch with you or anything.” Jaskier sits down and sighs. He’s _freezing._ His fingers and toes are numb. Even with the thick blanket, it’s not enough. 

The wolf stares at him. 

“If I freeze to death, don’t eat me, eh? I’m all stringy anyway.” His teeth clatter against each other and he shakes. 

The wolf stands and shakes the wet snow from its fur. It pads toward Jaskier. 

“I’m serious,” he says dryly. “I know I’m easy pickings but I’d make a terrible snack.”

The wolf doesn’t eat him. He cuddles up against Jaskier’s side. The giant thing radiates heat under its thick (although somewhat pungent) fur. 

Jaskier lays his head back down and tosses his blanket over both of them. Already, he feels warmer. 

“I owe you one,” he says, half asleep. “But you can’t tell anyone. Don’t want to make the ladies jealous. Or the lords, for that matter. 

The wolf snorts. 

Jaskier falls asleep with his hand tangled in the wolf’s fur. 

When he wakes in the morning, the wolf’s still at his side and none of Jaskier’s fingers or toes have frozen through. 

* * *

A few weeks later the worst of winter breaks. The snow starts to melt into sloppy mud. He plays in some more taverns. He even goes to a court. 

One day, in a small village in Lyria, he hears about a mage in the next town over with purple eyes. 

He’d rather not think about Yennefer if he could help it. But he can’t. He really needs the missing part of the Djinn story if he wants to finish the song that’s been driving him up the wall for months now. Jaskier had hoped Geralt would’ve shown up by now. His version of the story would be much more interesting, but Jaskier can work with what he gets. 

“The things I do for my art,” he sighs for the white wolf while he treks to the next village. 

The wolf lets out a rumble of agreement.

When Jaskier looks back, he realizes the poor thing could probably use a bath. Mud soaks his paws and legs. There’s some matted hair behind his ears. 

He _could_ use a bath, but Jaskier can’t exactly drag the wolf into an inn. He usually sleeps in the woods outside wherever Jaskier stays. On the rare night he camps, the wolf’s taken to sleeping at the foot of his bedroll. At any rate, any sort of bathing will have to wait until they find some lake or river that isn’t either frozen solid or still cold enough to give Jaskier frostbite. 

When they reach the village, his wolf stays at Jaskier’s heels. Several towns ago Jaskier discovered the trick to it all is confidence. As long as he acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world to stroll the village with a wolf behind him, no one questions it. Sure, he still gets a few strange looks, but nothing he can’t handle. 

When he reaches the house he’s heard Yennefer is renting, he turns to his wolf. “Just wait here,” he tells him. “I won’t be long and then we can get some dinner. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t say no to a good, hearty stew. I can save you the chunks of meat.” Jaskier ruffles his wolf’s fur and knocks on the door. 

Yennefer answers. “Jaskier,” she says with a smirk. “Good to see you up. Walking around.”

“Err, yes. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“You do.” She crosses her arms. 

“Well, then, thank you—“ Jaskier puts his arms out in an open gesture—“but I do actually have something else to ask. I’m trying to write a song, you see, and there’s this blurry bit in my memory between when I walked in on your sex party and woke up to you topless on the bed. And—not that that’s not a great story—but I really need those middle bits, you see—“

“Jaskier,” she shuts him up. “What. Is. That.” She points to his wolf, who’s sitting in a pile of half-melted snow at the side of her house. 

“Erm, that’s my dog. Ghost.”

“Try again,” she says, not taking her eyes off his wolf. 

“Fine,” he says. “He’s a wolf. Or at least, I think he is. I don’t really know for sure, but he sort of just found me in the woods one day and refused to leave me alone. Well, maybe it was more of a mutual refusal, but he’s well trained. Not dangerous.”

Yennefer isn’t listening—not really. She lifts her dark skirt, walks through the snow, and crouches down next to his wolf. She raises her hand and places it on his wolf’s head (which is strange, Jaskier thinks, because he usually doesn’t let anyone else touch him). 

“Oh, gods,” Yennefer whispers under her breath. 

“What?” 

“This isn’t a wolf, Jaskier. This is Geralt.”

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

Looking back, there are signs Jaskier missed. The yellow eyes. The grumpiness. The fact that he was literally a white wolf.

In Jaskier’s defence, it wasn’t like it was a logical conclusion to reach. How often could anyone say their friends got turned into wild animals? Besides, it was normal that he didn’t see Geralt for months on end. Why should this time have been any different?

In Yennefer’s house, Jaskier sits at the table and sips his tea. Mint and chamomile—meant to calm nerves. 

Geralt sits next to the fire, curled up in a ball. 

“You know,” Jaskier says to him. “You could have at least _tried_ to tell me.”

Yennefer comes out of her backroom not long after. Her brow creases with concentration. 

“So,” she says. 

“So…” Jaskier repeats. 

“It’s Geralt. Without a doubt. I could tell that much from what I could glean from his thoughts,” she says as she sits across from Jaskier. 

“What else can you hear him think? He knows the way to get himself out of this mess, I’m certain.”

“He might, but I can’t get it out of him. His thoughts, like this, it’s not the same as a person’s,” Yennefer explains. “It’s still him, but it’s as if everything is locked up. Under a layer of wolf.”

“Great.” Jaskier leans back in his chair and counts the wood beams in the ceiling. “So shall I just let my best friend follow me around as a wolf for the rest of my life?”

“I never said that,” Yennefer says coolly. “ _He_ might not have the spell, but I figured it out. There’s a distinct aura of the energy used. Old magic. There aren't too many spells like that anymore.”

“Well, perfect,” Jaskier says. “You can do the spell and we’ll be on our way. Out of your hair.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Is it the coin? Just name your price.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t charge for that. I can’t do the spell because there isn’t one. This old magic, it’s ancient. Deep. It doesn’t work the same. If I tried to change him back, I’d wither away to nothing.”

“So is that a no?”

“Jaskier. I can’t do it. But there is another way.”

Jaskier leans forward. “That would be preferable. Well, go on. You’ve got me at the edge of my seat,” he ribs, because it’s easier to joke than admit how the terror sits in his bones. 

“Geralt’s true love needs to declare their love for him before the spring solstice.”

A strangled laugh catches in Jaskier’s throat. “Don’t joke,” he says. 

“I’m not laughing. Old magic often works off strange maxims like this. They’re quite unbreakable otherwise.”

“Why the solstice? Why love?”

“Does it look like I’m the one who cast the spell?”

“Sorry.” Jaskier bites his lip. “I’m just confused.” 

“I can imagine.” Yennefer shifts in her chair. “But the spring equinox part—my guess is whoever cursed him did it on the fall equinox. Half a year to solve his problem.”

“And if we don’t turn him back by then?”

Yennefer’s face falters. “Then he’s stuck.”

“As a wolf?”

She nods. “Forever.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier drums his fingers against the table and bounces his leg. The house is too small. Too hot. He hates every part of it. 

“Well,” he says and swallows. “You should probably tell him you love him then.”

Yennefer raises her eyebrow. “I don’t love Geralt. I like him quite a lot, but I don’t love him. And he certainly doesn’t love me.”

“Come on,” Jaskier says. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him, for that matter. Just try it.”

Yennefer turns in her chair and locks eyes with Geralt. “Geralt. I love you,” she says. Nothing happens. Geralt sinks back on his haunches and whines. 

“See?” Yennefer says as she turns back to Jaskier. “It’s not me. You’ll have to help figure that one out for him.”

Jaksier runs his hands down his face. 

Fuck. 

* * *

Even though Jaskier’s known Geralt for years, he realizes he doesn’t actually know the Witcher. Sure, he knows some things about Geralt: he likes his baths just a shade under boiling, his favourite food is lamb stew, he can’t sleep until he’s rolled over at least five times, and even though he claims to not have feelings he’s really a ball of mush under his hardened exterior. 

But Jaskier knows nothing about Geralt’s past. 

For as many times as Jaskier has droned on about his first love or his love/hate relationship with university or his childhood friends or his family, he can’t recall Geralt ever mentioning anything of the sort. Once he’d dropped a line or two about his training, but after he said it he shut up—he’d clearly made himself uncomfortable by saying too much. It’s as if he’d simply come into existence as a full-blown Witcher. Jaskier never pried when Geralt didn’t open up, but now he wishes he had.

He looks at the wolf. “What am I going to do with you?”

They set off to Kaer Morhen the next day, because it’s really the only thing Jaskier can think to do. Maybe there he can get some glimpse of Geralt’s life. Maybe he can figure something out. He’ll have too—the equinox is only a moon away. 

They say goodbye to Yennefer. 

“I’ll keep searching for some other way,” she swears. “But I can promise I’ll find anything.”

Jaskier thanks her for trying. 

As they head North, the early spring turns back into winter. Jaskier pulls his heavy cloak tighter to keep the wind off his back. 

Geralt’s not bothered by any of it. He never was as a human—err, Witcher—and he certainly isn’t as a wolf. With all his white fur, it’s as if he’s wearing a coat all the time. 

“You know,” Jaskier says while they walk on a mountain path, “I know you can’t talk, but you _can_ still communicate. So I’ll ask you some questions, you can answer. One bark for no, two for yes. You understand?” 

Two gruff barks. 

Jaskier cracks a smile. “Perfect.”

The snow is getting deeper with each passing mile, but Jaskier trudges onward. “Is your lucky lady someone you knew from childhood?”

One bark. _No._

Jaskier thanks the gods for that, because it would be a lot more complicated if Geralt’s true love was eighty years old. Or dead. 

“Is she alive?” 

Two bark. _Yes_. 

“Well that about narrows it down,” Jaskier sighs. 

They continue on like that for a while. By the time they stop for the night at a small mountain village, Jaskier has pinned it down to this much: she’s about thirty, has brown hair, and lives somewhere in the North. 

So it might take longer than Jaskier thought. He runs his hand over his face, pulling his tension down. They don’t have the luxury of waiting forever—their time is short and precious. 

That night, when they reach a village with a half-decent inn, Jaskier turns to Geralt. “Sorry, mate, but I can’t take you in.” It’s not like he’d ever brought his wolf—err, Geralt—inside before, but he feels a little worse about leaving him outside given the revelation of the day. 

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning, alright?”

Geralt leans in a nuzzles Jaskier’s hand. 

The touch feels like a shock. 

He’s not sure of how much of Geralt’s mind is still in there—Yennefer wasn’t able to read it clearly, but when Jaskier asked questions, Geralt answered easily enough. If he was stuck this way, would he keep his mind? Jaskier stares at his white fur and yellow eyes. Or would he slowly slip into a feral state?

Everything swirls in his head. A tightness builds in Jaskier’s chest. He can’t get a breath, not a proper one. Jaskier sinks to the muddy ground and tries to steady himself. The air in his lungs is shallow and constricted. Around the edges of his vision, the world slips out of his focus. In his ears, a hollow ring sounds. He can’t breathe. _Oh, gods._ Jaskier can’t breathe. 

Something warm presses to his side. Geralt lowers his head and settles it in the nook of Jaskier’s arm. His heartbeat is slow and steady. Jaskier lets himself feel the beat and tries to breathe along with the slow rhythm. 

“I’m okay,” Jaskier says after a moment, even though he feels everything but okay. “It’s just a lot to wrap my head around.”

Geralt curls up at his feet. 

Jaskier stands slowly and brushes the mud off his pants. He’s unsteady on his feet, but the best thing for him is to get to the inn, take a bath, and try to get some sleep (even though he seriously doubts he’ll catch so much as a wink tonight).

That night he lays awake in the lumpy bed and replays every moment of the last few months. If—no, _when_ —Geralt’s back to his former self, he’s got some explaining to do. 

From his neck to his face, Jaskier feels flush. 

He’ll never live this one down. 

* * *

They reach Kaer Morhen the next day. 

The Fortress is nothing but crumbling ruins. 

Jaskier walks around the perimeter, looking for some iota of evidence to prove that there was life here, once. That Geralt spent years growing up here. 

Jaskier picks up a loose chunk of what was once wall and hucks it into the trees.

“I don’t know what I expected to find here,” Jaskier admits. 

Geralt whines in agreement. 

* * *

A few days later, Jaskier is resting with Geralt on one side of him and a campfire on the other when he gets an idea. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier,” he says to Geralt. “I’ll blame it on the stress of this whole situation.”

Geralt turns his head, clearly engaged in whatever was Jaskier’s newest scheme. 

“I’m going to run through the alphabet, okay? And whenever I reach the right letter, you stop me. We’ll spell out the name of your true love, even if her name is fifty letters long. How’s that sound?”

Geralt’s ears flip back down. Doesn’t he like the idea? 

Jaskier starts. He runs through the letters from A to Z. Geralt doesn’t react.

“Come on,” Jaskier says. “You’ve got to stop me when I get to the first letter of her name.”

He tries again.

Still, Geralt doesn’t react. He curls up against Jaskier’s hip and puts down his head. 

Jaskier wants nothing more than to grip the hair on his head and tear it out in tufts. He was so certain this would work. 

Instead, he gently runs his hand down Geralt’s neck. “It’s alright,” he says and tries to sound more mellow than he is, “that was a tough one. We can try something different.” 

Even as he says it, he hates the way it sounds. It _wasn’t_ that tough. Geralt should have gotten it. Maybe his mind is slipping faster than Yennefer had predicted.

* * *

After a few days of aimless travelling (wherein Jaskier spent a great chunk of his time at taverns, asking around for rumours of Geralt of Rivia’s love life) they come to a larger town. They might’ve been here once before. The facades of the buildings look familiar, for certain, but Jaskier can’t remember if he came here alone or with Geralt. 

He doesn’t walk through the market—he takes the side road to the inn. Geralt pads along next to Jaskier. The town is big enough that most people don’t even throw them an odd glance. They must be used to weird things, Jaskier thinks. 

He’s nearly at the inn when he hears a girl shout. 

“Puppy!” A young girl, no more than five, comes careening down the road. 

Jaskier freezes.

“Tiandra, no!” a woman—the girl’s mother, Jaskier guesses—shouts. She lifts her skirt and sprints after the girl, but she’s not fast enough. 

The girl wraps her hands around Geralt’s neck and pulls him into the biggest hug Jaskier has ever seen.

Geralt stands completely still, not even so much as twitching a muscle. He looks uncomfortable, more than anything, with his brow knitted down and mouth pressed in a line. 

Before Jaskier can say anything, the girl’s mother hauls her off Geralt and lifts her in her arms. “Tiandra,” she scolds, “you can’t touch strange animals.” Her voice is wrought with panic.

“He’s harmless,” Jaskier says quickly. He ruffles the fur on Geralt’s head. Geralt scowls but doesn’t make any noise of complaint. “He’s a big teddy bear, honestly. Just a little gruff looking.”

The woman’s face lightens a bit at that—Jaskier can imagine she’s pleased to know her daughter was in no danger of losing her hand. 

“But you should listen to your mother,” Jaskier adds. “Not all animals are as nice as Ge—Ghost here.” 

“Oh.” The girl says. Her tight black ringlets stick out wildly from the crown of her head. “Sorry,” she says, her ‘r’s sounding more like ‘w’s. 

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says. He shoots Geralt a look out of the side of his eyes. 

Geralt nods slightly. And rolls his eyes? It’s hard to tell, but Jaskier is fairly certain he did. He’ll have to talk to him later—they hardly need more unwanted attention than they already have. 

“You can pet him, if you’d like,” Jaskier offers. 

The girl squeals in delight. Her mother sets her down and the girl runs her hands over Geralt’s side. “Pretty, pretty, pretty,” she says to herself. 

Jaskier chokes back a peel of laughter. 

Geralt leans into her gesture. His tail wags. 

Jaskier is never going to let him forget this. 

* * *

Jaskier has his next great idea on the road to the next town over. He ventures off the road and goes to the finest mapmaker in the kingdom. She lives in a tiny but finely crafted cabin in the middle of the woods. There’s not another soul for miles around them. 

When she welcomes Jaskier in, he sets a week's worth of pay in front of the woman. 

Her eyebrows raise at the coin. “What do you need a map this detailed for?” She stares at Jaskier down the straight line of her nose. 

“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m planning an attack or anything of the sort,” he says. 

If anything, she looks _more_ suspicious now. Mentally he kicks himself for not shutting his damn trap. 

“It’s for a friend,” he tries again. “He’s looking for a lost love.”

In an instant, the woman’s demeanour transforms. Her harsh gaze melts into a knowing smile. Even her grey hair wound in a tight bun doesn’t look as strict. She leans over and pulls a scroll from her cabinet. “Love is rarely found in maps, dear.”

She sells him the map anyway. 

Jaskier goes straight to the clearing where Geralt waits. The wolf is sniffing at the roots the melting snow reveals. 

“Let’s try this,” Jaskier says. He unfurls the map and spreads it out in front of Geralt. “Point at where your true love is if you can.” 

Geralt’s eyes flit over the map. His face scrunches up in concentration. He leans in and noses—and oh gods this is it—at a spot in the valley, at the base of the mountains but before the river. It’s not a town. 

It’s the road they’re currently travelling on. 

“No,” Jaskier says, as gently as he can in spite of his exasperation. He holds himself back from rolling his eyes. “That’s where we are now. Where’s your love, Geralt?”

He growls and huffs and pads away. 

Great. Just great. 

* * *

They’re camping the next night when the rain starts pouring. Sheets of cold water come racing down. Jaskier doesn’t mind—he’s learned from his mistakes. He’s strung some canvas up underneath a rocky overhang, giving him a dry (albeit not the most comfortable) nook to sleep in. He adjusts his bedroll and listens to the patter of the rain against the forest floor. It’s a soothing beat, one that eases him into sleep. 

Until Geralt whines. 

Jaskier sits and looks at him. 

Geralt’s curled up under a tree, looking like a miserable drowned rat. There’s not much other shelter here

Jaskier sighs and gestures to the spot next to him in his shelter. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Geralt comes over, slow and hesitant. He stares at the spot next to Jaskier—it’s not big enough for the two of them to comfortably fit, but they will if they curl up together. Geralt doesn’t move, he just continues to stare at the spot. 

“It’s not like we haven’t done it before,” Jaskier says. “I won’t mention it again if you don’t.”

With a huff, Geralt slips into the shelter and out of the rain. He shakes himself off and lays down.

Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “Alright, you _seriously_ need a bath.”

Geralt snorts and closes his eyes. 

They fall asleep to the patter of rain. 

* * *

With a little over a week until the equinox, Jaskier starts to run out of ideas. He turns to what he knows best: tavern gossip. 

He orders an ale, and then another, and a round for the folks sitting with him. He pitches the conversation in the direction he wants, leading them to the right topic without outright saying it.

“Witchers,” the woman to his left says. “Scary fellows, but I can’t say I wouldn’t if the opportunity came about.”

Her friend giggles. “I’m sure you’d like them to slay your monster.”

Jaskier’s mouth quirks up in a grin. “Do you think that’s what those songs are really about?” 

“Oh,” the barkeep says. “I’m sure of it. Everything has a double meaning.”

Jaskier sips his ale. They don’t know he’s the one that wrote most of them and he’d like to keep it that way. Besides, there really isn’t any deeper meaning in his songs. Nope, none at all. 

Still, he needs some answers. “Do you think the famous one—what’s his name? Gerald?”

“Geralt,” the woman supplies. “Of Rivia.”

“Right,” Jaskier says. “You think he’s got a monster he slays regularly?”

The woman laughs. “Why, would you like a shot?”  
Heat runs into Jaskier’s cheeks. “Maybe.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” the barkeep says. “Sounds like the Witcher’s got a fine piece of ass that’s always hanging off him. Brown hair, blue eyes. Pouty lips.”

So there _is_ someone. Too bad Jaskier has never seen that lady in his life. If they were talking about Yennefer, there was no mistaking they’d mention her purple eyes. And, well, he’d already crossed that option off his list. 

“I wonder who managed to tie _him_ down,” Jaskier wonders out loud.

“Dunno,” the woman says, “but I bet they’re someone special.”

* * *

He finds the woman in a town he once visited with Geralt, many years ago now. 

He remembers her, even if she doesn’t remember him. He remembers the tinge of jealousy when he first saw her arms draped across Geralt’s shoulders. 

When she looks at him—with her wild brown ringlets and blue eyes—he can’t help but see a tinge of pity in her eyes. He was, after all, asking half the town about her. On top of all that, he knows he’s in a sorry state at the moment: unwashed clothes, rumpled hair, bags under his eyes, and a stench of wet dog. 

“Look,” Jaskier says, “I know this is a strange request.” 

“Try me, darling. I’m sure I’ve had stranger.” She crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a pointed look.

“I need you to tell my dog you love him,” Jaskier says defeatedly. 

She blinks. “What.”

“Can you do it?”

She sighs. “Sure.”

Jaskier opens the window of the room. Outside, in the spring mush with his tail wagging, Geralt stands with his head cocked upward. 

The woman raises her eyebrow at Geralt but leans out the window nonetheless. She cups her hands around her mouth. “I love you,” she calls down to Geralt. 

He stands there, still, and blinks. His tail wags. Nothing happens. 

Jaskier runs his hands over his face. _Fuck._

The woman looks at him, clearly unsure what to do next. 

Resigned, Jaskier digs through his pocket and pulls out a handful of coin. “Thanks anyway,” he says as he thrusts the money at the woman. “You might as well leave now.”

“You paid for the whole night,” she points out, “and I don’t give discounts.”

Jaskier waves her away. His gut feels as if it’s made of lead. He can’t think clearly; his mind races with fragments of full thoughts. “Just leave,” Jaskier bites. He scrunches his eyes and breathes deeply. “Please,” he adds. He might’ve been a little harsh.

What the fuck is he going to do now?

* * *

The next day, he wakes to a sharp rap on the door of his room at the inn. Still foggy (it’s still _dark,_ for fuck’s sake), he stumbles to the door and wrenches it open, ready to yell at whoever thought this was an acceptable hour to come knocking.

His words die in the back of his throat when he sees the man standing in front of him. His hair is wildly black and dishevelled, he breathes heavily, and the bottom of his trousers are flecked with mud. “Yennefer sent me,” he pants out. “I’ve been riding all night.”

Jaskier’s heart leaps, but he shoves the hope back down. He tries to say something, but he can’t figure out the right words. 

“This is for you,” the man says and hands Jaskier a sealed letter. His name is embossed across the front in Yennefer’s tight script.

He tries to keep his hands steady as he opens it. He fails, mostly. 

Yennefer kept her correspondence short. The letter reads:

_Jaskier,_

_There’s no magic I can cast that will undo the spell. Hope you’ve had better luck._

_Yennefer_

Jaskier closes the door in the man’s face and drops the letter in the fading fire. It takes a moment to catch, but it does eventually. He watches the flames eat the dreadful words. 

* * *

He can’t bear to look at Geralt. Does he know what’s going on? Can he even understand what it means? Jaskier walks beside him to the next town with his head down. He focuses on the dirt of the trail and says nothing. Geralt—even in his altered state—must realize that something is wrong. Jaskier can’t remember the last time he went this long without saying anything. The spring equinox is tomorrow and he doesn’t have a chance in hell of finding Geralt’s true love. They’re hardly going to reach the next village before nightfall, and the little town can’t have more than a few dozen people living in it. 

As they walk on, Geralt bumps his nose at Jaskier’s heels. His body language is sad, Jaskier thinks—downturned ears, low tail, and a pitiful gait. 

He _must_ know what it all means. He has to.

Still, Jaskier can’t think of anything to say to him. What’s good enough to sum it all up? Sorry you’re a wolf now? There’s nothing that can encompass the guilt he feels for failing his friend and the anger that negs his mind when he thinks of how Geralt got himself in this situation in the first place. Maybe if the Witcher actually spoke about his feelings instead of bottling them up in—in _asine-stubornity_ —then they wouldn’t have been here in the first place. 

Geralt whines and pulls Jaskier from his thoughts. 

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just thinking.” 

Geralt raises his eyes in a way that Jaskier imagines to mean ‘about what?’. 

Jaskier doesn’t answer. His mouth feels as if it’s been stuffed with cotton. 

Just before sunset, the reach the edge of the town. It small—only a few dozen buildings knitted together in the middle of the rolling hills—but it radiates peaceful energy that only a village of its size can. Jaskier can imagine how simple life would be here. He could follow the sun. He wouldn’t have to worry about the bustle of the big cities, or what he would write for his next ballad. He wouldn’t have met any Witcher who couldn’t _not_ get himself into trouble. 

He frowns slightly. There might be downsides to living here too. 

Instead of heading straight into the village, Jaskier climbs to the top of the nearby hill. His calves burn and ache by the time he reaches the crest. Geralt stands next to him, looking a tad confused but not in the least bit tired. 

“Oh, bugger off,” Jaskier mumbles as he sits down next to the knotted oak. 

Geralt stands at a distance. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I didn’t actually mean it. Get over here.” He gestures to the spot of grass next to him. 

Geralt sits. He’s still; his eyes focus far in the distance. 

They sit together, in silence, and watch the sun sink behind the hills and trees and distant plains. The sky is on fire—alive with oranges and pinks that ignite the clouds. 

_I’m sorry_ , Jaskier thinks. _I’m so sorry._

When the sky is dark, they trod down the path again and head into the village. There’s no inn—they don’t have enough steady traffic to support such a business—but a weaver rents Jaskier the back room of her cottage. 

It’s perfect, he thinks, even with the garish decorations. It has a large bed that’s reasonably comfortable, a fireplace that looks as if it had been swept earlier in the day, and (most importantly) a separate entrance from the main house. 

Once the weaver leaves the spare room and heads back into her house, Jaskier cracks the back entrance open a hair. “It’s clear,” he whispers to the darkness. 

A moment later, Geralt pads into the room. He shakes himself off and settles down in front of the fire. The light catches in his yellow eyes—the only hint of who Geralt used to be. 

Jaskier sits on the end of the bed and buries his head in his hands. The lump in his throat grows; his breath quickens. A tightness wraps around his chest and works its way up to his skull, constricting his body as it grows. The room starts to fade. His ears ring. How had he failed Geralt? They’d known each other for a decade—he should know who Geralt loves. Jaskier certainly spent enough time prattling on about his latest love of the week. 

But Jaskier has never told Geralt who he truly loves either. 

Maybe they’re both equally hopeless. 

Something nudges against Jaskier’s leg. He looks up from his misery to see Geralt at his side again—always again—with his wife eyes full of concern. 

Jaskier runs his hand over Geralt’s head. “I’m the one who should be comforting _you_ here.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “I—I messed it up. I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. 

He can’t hold it back anymore. It hits Jaskier, all at once, that this is it. There’s no last minute chance at redemption. No redos. No waiting for Geralt to swoop in and save him because this is the one time it was up to him to save Geralt instead and he _failed._

“I fucked it up. I’m sorry. Because it’s my fault that I couldn’t find a way to fix this, but now you’re the one who has to live with all this shit.”

“And I just can’t get my mind off how unfair it all is. Because it is, isn’t it? It’s not fair at all,” Jaskier pauses. He hears the blood thunder in his ears. His heart skips beats. The heavy scent from the fireplace clogs his nose. Everything is just too much. “It’s not fair at all.

“I’ve spent a decade by your side. You know I’d follow you anywhere. And the last time I saw you, I didn’t think it would be the last—of course, people seldom consider that, but I’m getting off track. There’s so much I want to say to you. There are so many songs I wish I could sing to you. Epic poems to write. And now we’re stuck here, having this one-sided conversation.” Jaskier chuckles to himself. “Mind you, our conversations were always mostly one-sided anyway.

“But here’s the thing. I need to say this. I need you to hear it. Maybe it’s not fair of me to say it, because you can’t really reply, but I’m going to say this anyways,” Jaskier spills. He locks his eyes on Geralt, willing that he understands what he _means_ even if his words are lost on the Witcher. 

“I love you,” he says. 

Jaskier holds his breath for a second. “And maybe none of this matters now anyway, but just now that I’m going to take care of you. Always. No matter what.”

Geralt looks up at Jaskier. He leans his head in and—

A bang splinters across the room. Warm light explodes from the core of Geralt. Jaskier feels the impact slam deep in the centre of his chest and falls back onto the bed. Jaskier blinks. 

He hears someone clear their throat.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier bolts up. In a heap in the centre of the floor, Geralt tries to sit up. He’s stark naked and a fair bit dirty. 

“Holy fuck,” Jaskier says. “What just happened?”

Geralt gives him nothing. “Blanket,” he says, his voice rusty with disuse.

“Blank—oh. Yes. Uh, here,” Jaskier says and hands Geralt a blanket from the foot of the bed. He casts his eyes downward and avoids eye contact with Geralt. His cheeks burn—he must be red down to his neck.

Geralt grabs the blanket and wraps it around his waist. He tries to stand, but his legs buckle underneath him. 

Jaskier jumps forward and offers the Witcher his arm for support.

“I’m fine,” Geralt barks and waves Jaskier off. “Everything just feels…off.”

Jaskier nods. "You could've tried to tell me."

"I did."

"You..." Jaskier pauses. Geralt's description. His level of comfort. The jealousy. The map. The tavern. Oh lords, he's been dense. "You did," Jaskier confirms. He pulls his lips into a straight line and tries to shake off the sting of his cluelessness. 

They stare at each other, neither one sure what to say next.

“So,” Geralt says.

“So.” Jaskier nods his head. “About what I said…”

“We can put it behind us,” Geralt says. “I can leave in the morning, once I have my things. You don’t have to see me again.”

Jaskier feels as if he’s the one who’s been hit with a spell now. “Geralt? What are you talking about?” He stumbles over his words. “Did you not hear everything I just said?”

“I did.” 

“So what the _fuck_ are you saying? Because the way I see it—and correct me if I’m wrong—I’m your true love.”

“I don’t need you to ‘take care’ of me. I’ve been enough of a burden already,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier can’t believe he’s in love with this idiot. But he is. “Are you serious right now?”

“Look,” Geralt says, “thank you for taking care of me. But I’m fine now.”

“I— _Geralt_. We have to talk about what happened.”

“A witch cursed me. Said I was being rude. If I was going to act like and animal, then I’d look like one too.” He looks down at his feet and doesn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes. His grey hair is longer and messier than Jaskier’s ever seen it. He didn’t think it was possible, but the Witcher looks even leaner than the last time they’d seen each other. His jawline is a touch sharper, too. 

“She said the curse would only be broken when my true love said they loved me,” he finishes. 

“And I do.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt bites, “I know you care for me. But I don’t think you understand—it’s not the same for me as it is for you. I don’t—I _can’t_ fall in love with everyone I meet. I can’t wear my heart on my sleeve. I can’t be heartbroken one day and then finding new love the next. You’re it for me. It’s you or no one. And that’s not fair to you. I don’t expect you to return that. My life has no great love story. I accepted that a long time ago. I need you to do the same.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t even know how to wrap every thought he has into words. “Geralt. You’re it for me, too. Okay?” He steps forward and closes the distance between them. “It’s always been you. Since the first day I saw you in Posada, I’ve been yours.” Jaskier sinks to the floor, next to where Geralt sits. He reaches out and runs his finger along the Witcher’s jawline and lifts his chin up. 

Geralt lets out a low breath. “I’m yours, Jaskier.” He runs his hand through the back of Jaskier’s hair. “If you’ll have me.” 

Their lips meet. A bolt of lightning runs up Jaskier’s spine. “Of course, Geralt. Always.” Jaskier closes his eyes and drinks in the moment. 

“I’ve waited for this,” Geralt says. He wraps his hand around Jaskier’s. 

Jaskier smiles. A warmth runs through his head. “Let’s move to the bed,” he whispers and opens his eyes.

Geralt’s glowing yellow eyes are tinged with mischief. “It’s small,” he says. 

“We can fit,” Jaskier promises. "After all, we’ve been through worse." He rests his forehead against Geralt’s. They sit together, their breath in harmony, with the dying fire at their backs. He could stay here forever, he thinks. He could live in this moment. It’s more than enough for both of them. 


End file.
